


Judas Goat

by WitchOfTheWestCountry



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Corpse Desecration, Corpses, Decapitation, Dismemberment, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Necrophilia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22465075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/WitchOfTheWestCountry
Summary: A minor background character in Mount Massive Asylum attempts to escape the bloodshed
Kudos: 7





	Judas Goat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wanderlust_Novadust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlust_Novadust/gifts).



> I started writing this way back in October 2018, according to Google Docs. But I've had a burst of inspiration recently for various reasons so I blew the dust off it about a week ago, read it, didn't like it. Started again from scratch with the same premise.
> 
> The OC Nova is based on my Tumblr Son.

They were herding the crazies back into their cells when the alarms went off.

It was a jarring sound that made Mitchell grit his teeth, but Hanson just lifted his chin, looking at the ceiling like it would tell him the reason for the noise.

"What the fuck?" he said, his tone matter of fact and unconcerned.

"What's that for?" asked Mitchell. "They testing it?"

Hanson shrugged. 

"Don't know. Haven't heard that once in all the years I've been working here. Whatever. Let's get these assholes locked back up then we'll go find out." 

He turned, hitting his nightstick against a metal door, the clang barely registering under the clamouring of the alarm. 

"Come on, shit heads!" he yelled. "Move your asses! Haven't got all day." 

The inmates were milling around, looking even more confused than they normally did. They'd been peacefully filing back from the rec room and the sudden introduction of a new element had shattered their line, shuffling them together into a bunch. 

Mitchell shook his head in disgust. They might be low risk patients but as far as he was concerned they were just as deranged as the others. Might as well stick them in the ward with the real psychos - they'd soon be weeded out. Survival of the fittest. Fewer mouths to feed.

"You heard the man," he said. "Keep walking, nothing you can do about it." 

One of them detached from the huddled group, palms over his ears, elbows jutted out awkwardly. 

"The noise!" he bleated. "Make it stop, make it stop!" 

"Can't," said Hanson. "Not till you're back in your cell." 

The inmate ignored him, sights fixed on Mitchell. He was a typical sample of this smaller community - scrawny and jittery, his hospital uniform hanging raggedly off his narrow shoulders.

"Get in your cell, Bob," Mitchell advised him, already sliding his nightstick from the loop in his belt. "Don't make this difficult." 

"Make it stop!" repeated Bob, his eyes wide, mouth a toothless, gaping O of horror.

Mitchell tensed his arm. What he wouldn't give for a taser or a fucking cattle prod right now. The noise was giving him a headache and Bob's mewling wasn't making it any better.

"Bob -" he began, but didn't get any further before the man shrieked, legs buckling beneath him. 

Hanson stood behind him, arm still caught in the upswing of the blow he'd dealt to the back of the man's knees. 

"Move, asshole!" he snapped, cocking his stick again.

Bob sobbed from his position on the floor. He hadn't removed his hands from his ears and was propping himself up on his elbows and knees, skinny ass stuck up in the air. 

Hanson shook his head, lip curling as he regarded the writhing man.

"Fucking pitiful," he muttered, and aimed a kick at Bob's leg, getting him a good one in the muscle of his thigh. 

Bob screeched again, making a frantic effort to crawl towards his cell on his elbows, body folding and unfolding in a graceless bow.

Hanson laughed.

"Move it along there, Inchworm." 

Mitchell sniggered. He liked working with Hanson. Man had zero tolerance and a sick sense of humour that matched his own.

"I tell you," said Hanson. "If I go out there and find out this is just a fire drill, I'm gonna -" 

He stopped mid sentence, his unfinished words evaporating into a hollow gasp and Mitchell, who had been watching Bob's contortions, looked up. 

It took him a couple of seconds to process what he was seeing: For a moment, it looked like Hanson had sprouted another head, then Mitchell saw the wiry arm looped around the other man's throat and realised that there was someone on Hanson's back, chin resting on his shoulder. 

It was Simon, a normally placid patient, and Mitchell recoiled in confusion. The inmate's habitually vacant eyes were glittery and full of horrible awareness, focused entirely on Mitchell's reaction as Hanson pawed fruitlessly at the restricting limb choking him, his stick clattering to the ground.

Certain he had Mitchell's full attention, Simon stretched his jaws wide, exposing yellow, jagged teeth before clamping them onto the side of Hanson's neck. 

The alarm cut off then, the silence that ensued heavy by comparison. Off in the distance Mitchell could hear screaming that was somehow louder that Hanson's own scratchy attempt.

Simon shook his head, emitting a muffled growl, and all the screaming in the world wouldn't have been enough to overshadow the wet tearing sound as he wrenched a chunk of flesh from Hanson's neck. 

Blood sprayed in a graceful arc, spattering against the wall of the narrow corridor, hitting the caged lightbulb overhead in sizzling little speckles. Simon bared his teeth again, the gory grin letting the soggy lump of Hanson fall from between them, and his voice gargled as he spoke. 

"It's time!" he crowed. 

The hypnotic pulse of the blood jet tilted, shooting for the ceiling as Hanson fell onto the floor, taking Simon down with him.

Mitchell took a step back. His feet felt heavy and he had to drag the soles of his boots. The other inmates had ceased their muttering and scuffling and were stood in eerie silence, watching him. He would never have imagined being afraid of these pathetic excuses for men: He'd been bullying them for years and not once had any of them retaliated in any way, but now… Now it was as if he were confronted by a herd of sheep who had filed their teeth to points and gone feral.

"Hey…" he said. 

His voice sounded as far off as the screaming he could still hear from the main building.

His mouth was dry and he struggled to find words to put in it.

One of the patients stepped forward, bare feet paddling through the gathering pools of Hanson's blood without any outward appearance of squeamishness.

Mitchell sighed in relief. It was Leon. He knew Leon. More than once he had visited him in the quiet hours after lights out, sneaking into his cell for a little one-on-one, giving him a candy bar to soften him up. Leon was soft and malleable. Mitchell wasn't afraid of Leon.

He spoke gently to the boy, using the same tone he would have used to a frightened animal if he'd ever given a shit about frightened animals.

"Hey Leon. What's going on?" 

Leon didn't answer, but continued to advance, stepping stiffly over Hanson's sprawled legs. They had stopped kicking by now, splayed on the crimson concrete in a broken V, but Mitchell ignored them, concentrating on the twink coming towards him.

The boy had a curious look in his eye, head cocked on his slender neck, examining Mitchell with cold concentration, and as he got closer Mitchell started to feel the pangs of uneasiness creeping back in. 

"Leon…" he coaxed. "Don't look at me like that. It's me!" 

He licked his lips as the boy came to a halt in front of him. 

"It's Daddy," he said, twisting his mouth into a sickly smile. 

Leon's face changed then, contorting into fury, and he launched himself at the guard, clawed hands reaching for his eyes. A ragged nail raked his eyelid, another gouged at his cheek. Mitchell staggered backwards, feeling fingers hook into his mouth, cracking his lips apart, squirming onto his tongue. 

Mitchell bit down, Leon's familiar high screams bouncing off the stained walls, and he pushed the boy away.

There was blood scalding his throat and fear churning his belly, but above all that was disbelief, affront that these stinking crazies would dare attack him. Him! Who had the power of life and death over them. Who could decide whether they went hungry that day or had extra rations. He was their God, and they were committing blasphemy. 

"Fuck you!" he shouted, raising his stick. 

There was a caul of red over his left eye, and through it he observed Leon struggling to his feet. Behind him, the other patients were moving as a single unit, creating a wave of scarred, grimy flesh sweeping in his direction. He hesitated for only a moment, muscles twanging with tension, then turned and ran, scrabbling his key card from his belt and rushing along the corridor to the reinforced door. 

He made it with mere seconds to spare, panting as he slammed the door shut behind him. Bodies hit the other side, voices raised in unearthly howls battering his ears above the thunderous pound of his own heartbeat. Still pumped on adrenaline, he retreated on shaky legs, eyeing the door nervously as if it might cave in. His little world was crashing down around him, his kingdom disintegrating into chaos. And behind him was the rest of the hospital, where far worse things lay.

He had to get out of this place.

Mitchell thought he had seen everything in his years working here. He had seen a man create a vast, astonishingly beautiful and intricate fantasy landscape across the wall of his cell using only his fingers as brushes and his own faecal matter as paint. He had seen a man have to be sedated and jacketed because he had masturbated so much his dick had become raw and he had started to cum blood. He had seen a man cut himself to ribbons with a purloined paperclip in an attempt to get the bugs out of his skin, effectively peeling himself in the course of one night. 

But never had he seen the carnage he was seeing now. 

Lunatics were inventive. He had forgotten how inventive till now, and as he viewed the evidence of this from his safe haven above it filled him with cold dread.

Down there was where they kept the Real Crazies - the dangerous ones. The murderous ones. The ones who had nothing to lose by killing and wouldn't care even if they did.

Fuck a taser or a cattle prod - Mitchell wished with his whole, stony heart that he had a gun right now, like the guards on the other floors. But all he had was this fucking night stick and a key card that would only allow him into certain, low security areas. A gun and high clearance were beyond his pay grade, though, and unless he could access one or the other commodity he was probably fucked.

Whatever. His mother might have been a fat old whore but at least she hadn't raised any quitters. 

Taking a firmer grip on his stick, Mitchell began to plot his escape route.

It was turning out to be harder than he thought. Everywhere he went, every corner he took, was fraught with danger. His course was circuitous and relied mostly on where he was able to unlock and often the way was blocked to him either through his rank or his sense of self preservation.

Some of the inmates had managed to get hold of key cards, it seemed, and were running amok in places they shouldn't have been. He encountered a few of the more placid ones, ones that were more scared of him and ran the second they saw him. He didn't make any attempt to accost these loners: He didn't know what they were capable of.

The only thing he had to be thankful for was the fact that he hadn't run into any of the more dangerous ones, but his luck couldn't hold out forever.

Mitchell had stopped to rest and get his bearings. This place was big and he hadn't been into every part of it, but even if he had much of it was unrecognisable anyway. There were walls decorated with blood, sometimes just sprays like the ones he'd seen when Hanson had bled out, but other times a deliberate attempt had been made to write words, finger marks still smeared into the crude lettering. Mitchell didn't read it though. Who had time to decipher the ranting of lunatics?

There was plenty of blood on the floor too, fresh and congealing, slippery and sticky, and he left footprints wherever he went. He didn't like that - anyone could track him if they put their mind to it no matter how unhinged that mind was - but he didn't have much choice. It was a game of The Floor Is Lava that he was losing.

He jolted in shock at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching, going into a half crouch and raising his nightstick. He still hadn't found a gun, but wasn't going to stop looking. 

A man crashed round the corner, rebounding off the opposite wall, and froze when he saw Mitchell. 

"Holy fuck!" he yelled. "Are you one of us?" 

Mitchell sneered, looking the man up and down. He was dressed in hospital pajamas, stained and threadbare, naked feet sticking out from the pants cuffs. 

"Do I fucking look like I'm one of you?" he scoffed. 

"No! I'm not a patient!" said the man, holding both his hands up in a placatory gesture. "I got ahold of some clothes so I can blend in! Less likely to be killed that way." 

Mitchell nodded, but he wasn't convinced. If it was true, it was a good idea and he wished he'd thought of it. 

He regarded the man with a suspicious eye. He did look a little crazy, but anyone who had witnessed what had happened in the past couple of hours would go crazy. And the man's hair was longer than the buzz cut most prisoners had. He spoke sense too. 

"Where did you get the clothes from?" he asked, giving the newcomer the benefit of the doubt. 

If he could get to the storage area he could kit himself out too. Make himself a little less noticeable. 

The man looked nervous at that, a muscle twitching under his eye, and the guilty side glance he gave him told Mitchell everything he needed to know. 

"Took them off a prisoner, did you?" he asked, making an effort to sound sympathetic. 

The man nodded. 

"Good thinking," said Mitchell. "Guess we should stick together, right? Figure out a way to get out of here?" 

The man nodded again, looking relieved. Mitchell still wasn't quite sure he believed him, but at this point he didn't care: the guy didn't seem dangerous, more scared than anything. And besides, Mitchell needed his clothes… 

They found a quiet room with an unlocked door. It was bare except for a wooden chair and a rusted bed frame, and Mitchell wedged the chair back beneath the door handle. He doubted it would hold off someone really determined, but with any luck they'd find the wedged door and choose to leave it. 

"So was he dead?" asked Mitchell, checking the chair was secure. 

"Was who dead?" asked the man. 

"The patient you got those clothes from? Was he dead? Just lying there? Did you kill him yourself? Or did you just pin him down, screaming, and strip him naked there and then? That would have been a struggle."

"Does it matter?"

The man sounded irritable now that they were comparatively safe, and Mitchell didn't much care for his tone. He shrugged though.

"Guess not," he said. "Was just curious. I'm not judging, if that's what you think. It's a jungle out there, is what it is, and it's every man for himself. Gotta do what you can to survive, isn't that right?"

"Yes…" 

He sounded cautious now, and Mitchell grinned. He liked that tone much better.

"Way I see it, it's survival of the fittest and you gotta be grateful for every advantage. I mean, earlier, I was pretty upset that all I had was this stupid stick. Wouldn't given my right ball for a gun. Did you have a gun?" 

The man shook his head.

"I work in HR," he said. "Just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?" 

"That sucks," said Mitchell. "But now you see what I mean: Neither of us has a gun, but I'm better off than you because I've got my nightstick."

He held it up, giving the man a bright smile, and there must have been something a little off about it because the man backed up, shrinking against the wall. Like that was going to help him...

Mitchell was out of breath. His shoulder hurt from swinging his stick and there was something sticky clinging to the leg of his pants, but the job was done.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd gone a little over the top, but the  _ noises _ the man had made…! Dear god. He'd screamed like that bitch from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and. Just. Wouldn't.  _ Stop! _

Hollywood had lied to him. It wasn't that easy to kill a man. 

He looked down at the mess he'd made and felt a twinge of… Something. He wasn't sure what. The guy's head was barely recognisable as a head - it looked more like the watermelon that had been dropped from the third floor of his apartment building by some college kids. A messy pulp of bone fragments and grey brain oatmeal. One eye had popped out and lay on the floor, staring up at him accusingly.

"Fuck you staring at?" he muttered, circling his aching shoulder and wincing at the pain.

He laid his gummy nightstick on the ground. There was a clump of hair clinging to it that made it look like his stick had a moustache and he allowed himself a little giggle at that.

His good humour was short lived, though, when he heaved the body over to strip it. 

The shirt was fine: A little blood was to be expected and you can't make an omelet without breaking heads, but when Mitchell got to the pants he recoiled in disgust, gagging. 

"Shit!" he said, appropriately.

They were a mess. Whilst Mitchell had been prepared to accept blood - there was plenty of the stuff splattered all over his uniform, after all - he drew the line at shit and piss. There was no way he was going to wear the pants. 

"Useless fuck!" he spat, aiming a kick at what was left of the head. 

The toe of his boot sank into the mush with a soft squelch, and he hopped backwards, freeing it with a wiggle. He regarded the gore silently for a few moments before wiping it on the guy's chest and stepping away. 

All that effort. Wasted. Looked like the guy had died for nothing.

"Sorry, dude. No hard feelings?" 

The lone eye peered up at him, no forgiveness granted, so he stepped on it, crushing it into a snotty smear, and left the room and the stink behind.

He continued through the maze without incident for a while. He felt calmer now, as though the killing had released a knot of tension within him. Useful to know.

He'd been through a section that was mainly offices, and rough barricades had been formed using piled desks and filing cabinets. Fruitlessly though, it seemed, as when he found a gap to squeeze through there was little to greet him on the other side apart from dead bodies. None of them had any heads, he noted, and the missing heads were nowhere to be seen. Interesting.

He was approaching the labs now, an area usually shut off to him, but by some serendipity one of the doors had been chocked ajar by the dead body of the person who had no doubt opened it. Their head was still on their neck, but they were pantsless, and he wondered briefly what had gone on. Not that he cared. He didn't have time for detective work, and the flashing red lights illuminating the corridors beyond the wedged door were distracting. He heaved the body out of the way though, propping it against a wall and sealing the door shut behind him. One less direction to watch.

A long corridor stretched ahead of him, ominously quiet, and he crept along it, holding his crusty stick aloft. There were doors either side, and the corridor split into a T at the end. He tested each door stealthily as he went along, hoping there was somewhere he could hole up securely until this mess was over - preferably somewhere with food and a toilet or even just a working phone - but they were all locked.

He was mulling over whether to retrace his steps and search the white coated corpse for a key card, cursing himself for his oversight, when he heard more footsteps. Bare feet slapping the tiles, approaching from the right of the T.

Mitchell should have been scared, but he could also hear little wheezy gasps accompanying the running steps, huffing cries that didn't sound scary at all, and when the owner of the noises rounded the corner he looked absolutely terrified. The man stopped, doing his best rabbit-in-the-headlights impression when he saw Mitchell, stumbling a little over his own feet.

"Hey," said Mitchell, looking the man over.

He was about the right size but he also had no pants - what the fuck was all that about anyway? - so he was of no use to Mitchell. 

The man blubbered, taking in Mitchell's stance, his raised stick, and shook his head. 

"RUN!" he yelled. "HE'S COMING!"

"Who's coming?" asked Mitchell, but the man was already gone at the same pace he'd employed in arriving, darting off down the left of the T. 

"Hey!" repeated Mitchell, breaking into a jog. "Stop! I wanna talk to you!" 

The man didn't listen, and Mitchell increased his speed, following the man's bare ass, a pale beacon in the pulsing red light. 

Bareass was zig-zagging back and forth across the corridor, rebounding off doors like a pinball as he frantically tried each one, so Mitchell was gaining ground, but just as he was nearly close enough to snag the collar of his target's filthy shirt one of the doors burst open against the man's shoulder. 

Sweet. 

Bareass gave a weak moan of relief and fell through the doorway, but as Mitchell was about to join him the door slammed shut in his face. There was a muted click on the other side, and Mitchell stared at barrier in disbelief. Had he fucking locked it? 

He tried the handle and, sure enough, it didn't budge. Mitchell kicked the bottom of the door in a fit of pique that was slowly rising to anger, and was just about to demand that Bareass open the door when something made him turn his head. 

The corridor in the other direction had a bend in it, and a large shadow was stretching across the floor, gradually filling it to the walls. It was human shaped, but the size, though surely exaggerated by the uneven lighting, made Mitchell pause. He badly wanted to pound the door with his fists, yell and curse, maybe even plead, but something told him that would be a very bad idea. There was a chill creeping through him, spreading across his chest and belly and tickling his spine. He felt like he was about to be in the presence of something terrible.

The corridor he was in was a dead end, and he stepped away from the door with helpless reluctance. There was a row of dented lockers against the wall to his right. There were lockers all over this place, though he wasn't sure why, but they were tall and wide enough to fit a man. He staggered over to them, picking one at random, and slipped inside.

There were vents in the door, just high enough for him to see through, and his breathing sounded vast in the enclosed space. The far away shadow continued to grow in size, plodding and inexorable, until the person casting it finally came into view, and suddenly Mitchell forgot how to breathe altogether. 

He recognised the huge, hulking figure he was seeing. Who wouldn't? It lost nothing in translation from shadow to person, seeming to fill the corridor as efficiently as the creeping blackness had done.

Mitchell had heard of him through the hospital grapevine as the ex soldier had achieved some kind of hushed infamy, but he had also seen him once, being transferred under armed escort. With his white, lidless eyes and permanently grinning, lipless mouth, Chris "Strongfat" Walker looked like a nightmare that had somehow made it into the real world. Everyone had gone quiet as he'd passed, whether from respect or fear or awe or simple morbid curiosity, and even Mitchell, with his pretense at indifference, hadn't been unmoved by the man's size and presence.

Now, Walker paused as if he knew he was observed and wished to create a dramatic effect, but he turned his head, taking stock of his surroundings, before hefting his bulk forward again. The potential power in the man's gait turned Mitchell's bowels to water and the stick in his hand suddenly felt as ineffectual as a toothpick against an elephant. He was trembling, he realised, and clutched his puny stick to his body in case it rattled against the metal walls and gave him away.

Walker seemed to know where he was going. Those staring eyes were fixed on the door Bareass had ducked through, and whilst Mitchell partly wished he was behind it too instead of in this flimsy metal box, another part of him was curious. How would a wooden door last against the Soldier?

His query was resolved within minutes, and the answer was: "It wouldn't." 

Mitchell watched as Walker battered down the door like it was rice paper. Heard the screams of Bareass as his protection disintegrated. There was a wet noise, the sound of soggy Kleenex amplified x 100, during which the screams cut off abruptly. Something flew out of the doorway and hit the wall opposite and Mitchell couldn't have accurately described the sound it made under hours of torture, but the closest he would have been able to get would have been: An overripe head of cabbage hit by a sledgehammer with a steak strapped to it.

It was a head. It dropped to the floor, rolling briefly, blood leaving ribbon trails from the ragged stump of the neck, and the expression on the face was a weirdly mild shock. The eyes blinked once, then remained open, staring right at the locker where Mitchell was stashed.

Walker emerged from the room, radiating the chill of a man who knows he has done his job, and he hesitated for a few seconds, craning his neck like a dog sniffing the air.

Mitchell's breath screamed in his lungs, and his heart was beating so hard he was sure Walker would hear it, like that fucking story Mitchell had read in high school about the crazy guy and the dead body under his floorboards. Crazies had extra senses. He'd thought that was bullshit before but now he thoroughly believed it.

Walker's immense body swayed, leaning slightly in Mitchell's direction, and if every fluid in Mitchell's body hadn't turned to ice he was sure his eyes would have watered and there would be rivulets of piss running down his leg.

Walker gave a disinterested grunt, the verbal equivalent of a shrug, and swivelled on his booted feet. He took the few steps that brought him level with the tossed head and picked it up, cradling it in his massive hands. He turned it this way and that, examining it, then marched off ponderously, his thick fingers hooked into the head's lower jaw as a handle, swinging it next to him as he left. 

Mitchell stayed in the locker for longer than was probably necessary, but there was no way he was risking bumping into that grinning beast of a man. He didn't know why Walker had ripped the head off the hapless patient and he didn't care what twisted reason the soldier had. Now he thought about it, it would certainly explain all the headless corpses he'd seen earlier. Mitchell had even less interest in what the man was doing with the heads… 

Once his heartbeat had returned to normal and an unknowable amount of time had passed, he finally left his refuge. It took every ounce of his resolve to open the door, half convinced that Walker was lying in wait around the corner, and he was annoyed that the incident had left him so cowed. His legs were still weak, though, so he couldn't pretend any false bravado even to himself. 

The only way he could go was the way Strongfat had gone, and the concept of walking in the man's giant steps didn't thrill him, but he had no other options. One thing was for sure, he was going to be less blasé from now on.

Mitchell was tired. Not only was the constant terror exhausting, but he'd been round and round in looping circles and wasn't any closer to getting out. He'd met other patients - vacant and idiotic, terrified and cringing - but they had ignored him and he them. Others he encountered seemed to be revelling in their newfound freedom, running amok and having the time of their miserable lives. He'd seen one patient fucking the headless corpse of another and the man had been affronted by Mitchell's interruption.

"Hey, you weren't invited! Sick fuck! Like to watch, do you?" the man had bawled, never missing a stroke, and Mitchell had been horrified to find himself apologising and backing away, as if he'd inadvertently walked in on someone in an occupied bathroom stall.

Then there was the man tenderly washing another in a bathtub filled with blood. The man in the tub was probably dead, but the one tending him didn't seem to mind. He was talking soothingly to him, telling him against all probability that he was going to be all nice and clean. Thankfully, this guy had ignored Mitchell too. Mitchell didn't want to end up in the bathtub, dead or alive.

He was immune to the dead bodies now. They were becoming monotonous. He searched the ones of the other guards, hoping against hope for a weapon or a key card, but anything of any use to him seemed to have been taken. Even the flashlight he'd managed to acquire was useless: he hadn't found a single battery to power it.

It would have come in handy, too. At one point all the lights had gone off, and he'd been forced to hide under a bed until they came on again. He hated hiding, but he had little choice. Better to lie on the filthy floor in an empty cell like a coward than risk walking into one of the horrors that patrolled the place. He'd been lucky so far but he doubted he'd be so lucky in the dark.

His path through the endless maze finally took him to a different section. If he hadn't found a batch of already open doors on the way, he wouldn't have made it this far, so he had someone to thank for that. This section was different from what he was used to: Still dirty and decrepit but it was hung with sheets of clear plastic, like construction work was underway. 

It looked like some bad shit had gone down here too. There was a room that was empty apart from a gurney with a dead body on it. The body had been mutilated beyond recognition but it appeared to have been wearing a white coat. Mitchell huffed laughter at that. Having doctors in a place like this was fucking useless. These people couldn't be cured, and it seemed this hapless person had found that out the hard way. He was glad the room was empty, though, and cut through it, squelching through congealed blood and guts.

He was half way round when he heard the noise: a muffled squeak that could have been his shoe or could have been a person. He paused, turning his head on a neck that creaked with tension.

The noise didn't sound like something he would be scared of, but it paid to be cautious. 

"Someone there?"

He used his nicest voice. He still hadn't given up hope of finding a set of usable clothes to disguise himself, and maybe Squeaky would be the man to provide them. If he could find the fucker. 

"It's OK. You don't have to be scared," he continued. "I'm just trying to find a way out. Take you with me, if you want…"

The prey that his bait brought out was disappointing to say the least: A tiny figure, more boy than man, who looked far too young to be in a place like this. Mitchell wondered how a kid like that had ended up here, then decided he didn't give a fuck. Boy was too small for Mitchell to steal his clothes. He might as well just kill him now and be done with it… 

There was no real reason to kill him, of course. He could just walk away. But then the little shit might follow him for any protection he could give, and that would be a pain in the ass. He didn't need anyone tagging along.

He felt his fist tighten around his stick of its own accord. The boy reminded him a little of Leon. Killing the HR guy had been good, but killing this little twink would surely be even better. He pictured himself putting his stick across the boy's throat, choking him slowly and tenderly as his bare feet kicked and his face turned blue… 

Maybe the boy saw something on his face that betrayed his thoughts, because he looked like he was ready to hide again, but to give him credit he stood his ground. 

"Hey," he said nervously. "You want a way out? Cuz I know a way out. I can show you. Uh huh. I can show you."

He nodded vigorously, flashing a twitchy smile.

Mitchell hesitated.

"You can?" 

"Oh yeah! Yeah. Just, you know, I don't wanna go by myself. You know? Have you seen that shit out there?"

The boy shook his head.

"I wouldn't last five minutes. Only survived so long cuz I hid." 

He turned and looked at the remains on the gurney. 

"That guy lasted longer than five minutes," he said. "A  _ lot _ longer. Couldn't believe how long he lasted before he finally quit. I saw all of it.  _ All of it." _

He shuddered.

"So yeah. You want me to show you the way?" 

Mitchell nodded, his hand relaxing around his stick. The boy was going to be useful after all. And there would be plenty of time to kill him once they were out.

"Lead the way, Squeaky," he said. 

His name was Nova, it turned out. Stupid fucking names people gave their kids these days. He was a chatty little fucker, too, babbling on about whatever popped into his round little head. But he was a good guide even so. More than once he scouted ahead to see if the coast was clear, and that was worth any amount of idle chatter. He also seemed to know a lot of the other inmates. 

"That's Silky, we call him, you don't have to worry about him. He won't hurt you. They had to put him in a jacket because he kept scratching himself. He'll talk to you but don't say anything back or you'll never get rid of him."

Mitchell grunted. He had no desire to hold a conversation with the man who wasn't only jacketed but whose head for some reason was bound in strips of cloth so tight they were digging into his flesh.

"So you're a guard, huh? Or did you steal that uniform? Haven't seen you around before. What part did you work in?" 

"None of your business," Mitchell replied, more curt than he'd intended, and Nova shrugged. 

"Whatever, man, whatever. Just asking. Making conversation, you know? Don't get much chance for that round here. Ask a guy how he's doing and he'll tell you about how the devil crawled up his butt the night before or something."

Nova slowed down, turning his head to look at an open door that appeared like any other, then looking away quickly. Mitchell craned his neck, curious as to what had spooked his companion, but didn't see anything particularly horrifying in there. Just a wall full of screens. 

"Fuck…" said Nova. "That engine. Heard some fucking stories about that, I can tell you. Never know what's real and what's not round here but everyone says the same thing so maybe it's true. I dunno." 

"Engine? What the fuck are you talking about?" 

snapped Mitchell.

The boy's gossip was wearing thin, and he wondered if he shouldn't administer a little corrective beating to shut his mouth.

Nova looked at him curiously. 

"The morphogenic engine? You haven't heard rumours about that? I thought everyone had." 

"Nope. No idea." 

Nova raised an eyebrow. There was a smirk on his face Mitchell wanted to slap off. 

"You were in low security, weren't you? Figures. No gun and still alive. Explains a lot…" 

Mitchell ground his teeth at that. He was well aware of how the other guards saw him and the rest of his colleagues. He'd been referred to as a nursemaid and a nanny more than once in disparaging tones, and he hated it. Patronising bastards, thinking they were better than him. Well, they were all dead, so who had the last laugh?

"I'm not allowed to talk about shit like that with the patients," he said, knowing how lame it sounded. "So just stop talking and get us out of here."

"Sure, sure."

Nova didn't seem scared of him any more, and that didn't sit right with Mitchell at all. Boy needed to learn some respect. 

The scenery had changed again. There was a barricaded door up ahead, a table jammed up against it, but Nova didn't pause. He climbed up on the table. 

"Gimme a boost," he said. "We got to go through here."

Mitchell looked up. There was glass above the door and it had been smashed through, allowing access, and even though the boy's unthinking command had raised his hackles, he climbed up himself and made a cup with his linked fingers for the kid's dirty foot. 

He weighed barely anything, and Mitchell heaved him up with little difficulty. 

"What's through here anyway?" he asked as he struggled through himself. "And how do you know there's a way out?" 

"I worked in the kitchens before the shit hit the fan," said Nova, waiting on the other side. "There's a door so the catering truck can make deliveries. And I know where the key is kept. We're lucky: Someone set the cafeteria on fire not long ago but looks like the sprinklers kicked in, so we'll be good."

Mitchell nodded. He had no idea where the kitchens were in this part of the building, but he had no reason to doubt the boy's claims. There was a smell of something savoury in the air and it made the little glands under his tongue jizz. He hadn't realised he was hungry. It had been a long night.

"Nearly there," Nova chirped.

He looked around, his shoulders hunching up a little, and Mitchell wondered what had made him so twitchy. 

"I saw the twins round here earlier," the boy confided in a low voice. "They were naked and they'd gotten hold of something sharp. I didn't stick around." 

The twins. Mitchell thought he might have heard of them. Once, he'd managed to access a wad of confidential files through some admin error and had spent a very entertaining hour reading through the notes about Walker, the Groom, and the other more dangerous patients. Didn't understand half the jargon but it had been a good read anyway.

Nova was talking again. Forever talking. 

"Nearly there," he said. "Nearly there. Watch your step." 

The smell had gotten stronger, and Mitchell's stomach growled. If he had the chance he was going to grab some food. Take his new friend out and hole up somewhere with supplies and have a little fun before he killed him. He deserved some fun after the night he'd had.

"We better be quiet. Just in case," said Nova. "Through here…."

Mitchell took two steps through the door the boy had indicated then stopped. There was a headless corpse in front of him, and that was nothing new, but this one was suspended from the ceiling by its ankles, hands dangling limp from lifeless shoulders. 

"What the fuck..?"

It wasn't the only body. There were more, strung up like sides of meat in an abattoir.

"Yeah. Saw those earlier," said Nova, appearing unperturbed. "Lot of headless bodies round here.  _ Lot  _ of headless bodies. Someone got creative with these. We have to go through them." 

Steeling himself, Mitchell sidled round the nearest corpse. The stiff fingers brushed against him as he passed, cold twigs rasping on his shirt, and he suppressed a pointless shudder. He'd seen worse. No reason these lumps of meat should get to him.

There was a counter beyond them, its surface gaudy with pooled blood and strewn body parts. There was a head, and legs, and arms, even a tangle of guts, but the torso was missing, a neatly stripped spinal column joining the pieces. 

"Jesus fuck…" 

The smell was getting to him. He didn't like that his appetite was spurred whilst he was surrounded by this array of human flesh, but his belly knew no different. The odour was familiar somehow. He was sure he'd smelled it before, and as he turned the corner into a rudimentary galley kitchen a memory sprang from the recesses of his mind.

_ Water boiling. Bubbling on the stove. He was hungry, and mama was cooking something. Finally. _

_ He had to stand on tiptoe to look into the pot. His mother had told him they had no money for food, even though they apparently had money for the cheap wine she'd taken to her room with her, so he was curious as to what was for dinner. _

_ There was a thin broth roiling in the pot, a scum of flaked flesh floating around the edges of the oily surface. _

_ Little Mitchell grabbed the handle of the spoon sticking out to give it a stir, and screamed when a pale, milky eye had bobbed to the top, followed by the rest of the pig's head with its teeth bared in a sickly grin. _

Mitchell stared at the pots on the stove, so similar to the ones from his childhood. A hand poked out of the nearest, the movement of the boiling water causing it to sway as though it was waving. Next to it was a pot with a lid that was coincidentally just the right size for a human head to fit in, and the instinct to relive that childhood memory and lift the lid off to peer inside was so strong Mitchell found his hand raise as if he were a puppet being controlled by a twisted puppeteer. 

"Oh shit, look at that!" exclaimed Nova behind him, but the kid didn't really sound that shocked.

Mitchell's arm dropped.

"Someone's cooking," he said hoarsely. "We need to get the fuck out." 

"Oh yeah. Definitely," agreed Nova. "Go on through that door there." 

"Are you fucking crazy?" hissed Mitchell, the revulsion that was clenching his stomach robbing his voice of any power. 

Nova laughed, a high, pleasant sound that was jarringly out of place in these surroundings.

"Why, yes, I am," he said mildly. "Why the fuck do you think I'm in this place?"

Mitchell turned, raising his fist. The kid had sassed him once too often, but that wasn't the reason he was going to hit him now. He was panicking, and Nova was blocking his escape. The boy didn't move, and Mitchell realised his arm was trembling so much he could barely hold it up. 

"Get out of the way, you little shit!" he hissed, too scared to raise his voice in case the chef preparing this dubious feast overheard - and he surely had to be close. 

Nova looked at Mitchell's fist, wholly unimpressed, and there wasn't a speck of fear in the boy's eyes.

"Don't you hit me," said Nova. "Don't do that. That is Not Allowed."

"Oh yeah?" said Mitchell. "Who's gonna stop me?" 

If Mitchell had been given time to reflect during the next crowded minutes, he would have scoffed at the absurdity of the door behind him crashing open at the exact moment those words had left his lips. Had he seen it in a movie or read it in a book he would have put it down to lazy storytelling by the writer, a dramatic but unlikely dynamic that wouldn't happen in real life. He would have thought all that if he'd had the chance, and he would have been right. The knowledge wouldn't have helped him though. 

But right here and now the only thing he could do was react. 

The man who had opened the door was emaciated, and naked except for a pair of tiny underwear, but in place of clothes he wore blood, splashed all over him in sloppy patterns, all shades from rust to scarlet. In terms of physical terror, he wasn't as imposing as Walker had been, but his appearance triggered a different response. This one was feral, a wiry bunch of muscle with terrifying intelligence behind the murky eyes.

"Well, guess who's coming to dinner?" cackled the man.

Mitchell didn't even stop to consider what he would do. He grabbed Nova with both hands, fingers wrapping around the boy's skinny arms, and swung him round, hurling him behind him. 

Nova uttered a thin scream and Mitchell had time to see him crash into the crazy man full force before he broke into a run, feet skidding on the greasy floor.

Nova should buy him some time, he thought, on the edge of incoherence as he fled. He felt no guilt at sacrificing the kid, just wondered how long killing him would distract the man.

The area he was in didn't look like kitchens. There were beds, lined up in otherwise empty rooms like a hospital ward. Had Nova lied? He felt a moment's dull anger at the boy's treachery. He hoped the man would eat the kid's false tongue.

He hurdled an overturned bed blocking the corridor. This wasn't the way he had come. He'd gotten turned around somewhere.

He paused for a precious second to take stock of his surroundings, hoping for a handy locker like the one that had saved him from Walker, but his feet started moving again when he heard the sound of an electric saw start up behind him. How the fuck had a patient got hold of an electric saw? he wondered, careering helplessly off a wall and staggering through a doorway.

_ "Feed me!" _

The voice was gurgly, full of blood and death, and was far too close for Mitchell's liking.

With no other option, he dropped to the floor, crawling on his belly under the nearest bed.

Under the bed, with only dust bunnies for company, Mitchell had time to gather his thoughts. Another memory had surfaced, a description and a blurry photo from the notes he wasn't meant to see. 

Frank Manera. Could it be him? The mystery man had been a patient since 2010. He'd been on some kind of hunger strike, losing over 130 pounds during his incarceration, until they'd talked about force-feeding him. They could have saved themselves the trouble, it seemed, if they'd found out what he liked to eat…

He shuddered. He'd murdered a man in cold blood mere hours ago and seen so much death since then the thought of cannibalism shouldn't have affected him, but there was something primal about his disgust at the thought of being eaten. About being dismembered and put in one of those scummy pots. He wondered if Manera ate the dicks. Broiled them up and stuck them in buns like hotdogs…

The door to the room he was in crashed open, and Mitchell had to bite down on one knuckle to muffle the frightened squeal that wanted to sneak out. A pair of bony feet, the toenails long and yellow, appeared at the end of the bed. They were inches away from Mitchell's face, and he held his breath, terrified the cold huff of the chill in his lungs would alert his hunter. 

"I can smell you…" Manera growled. "Where you hiding, Fresh Meat?" 

He chuckled. 

"Under a bed, I guess. But which one?" 

Mitchell wanted to get up. Push the bed frame off and dodge the insane man, run back the way he'd come and take his chances with getting his head ripped off by Chris Walker. Anything would be better than being eaten… 

He tried to move but his body was numb, his limbs refusing to obey the commands his brain was screaming at him. He hoped against all common sense that the man would start at the other end of the room, would look under those beds first and give him time to get his body under his control again, but of course Manera didn't do that.

Feet gave way to hairy shins, and a pair of knees thumped onto the boards. Manera's grinning face appeared in the gap before Mitchell's eyes, his beard clotted with gore. 

"There you are…" he purred. "Fresh Meat to feed me." 

The man's breath stank of raw meat, and Mitchell could see shreds of flesh between his broken teeth as he was dragged, whimpering, from under the bed. 

_ "This place ruins a man…"  _

Mitchell was having a nightmare, a horrible one in which he was being dragged towards a monster's lair to be devoured, and the monster had a human voice.

His head hurt and his bed was hard, and wouldn't stop shaking. 

_ "Spoils the meat. All the… Mental anguish. Years of it, seeping into the marrow, tainting the flesh." _

Mitchell wished the monster would just shut up and eat him already. He had to get up for work. 

_ "Wanted me something Fresh and the universe delivered."  _

Mitchell cracked one sore eye open. There was something he had to remember, something important.

The sight of the dead body hanging overhead, the stringy tendons of the neck stump depositing a drop of thick goo onto his face, reminded him. 

He tried to scream but there was something foul stuffed in his mouth, and he gagged. 

Rolling his eyes helplessly he caught sight of his own feet. Manera had removed his boots and he moaned as he remembered the man chomping one of his toes off like a popsicle, chewing it with every sign of enjoyment as Mitchell screamed and writhed. He'd been bound with thin strips of cloth, entwined like a pork roast, holding him still for whatever the man wanted to do. 

Sobbing, Mitchell pulled fruitlessly at his bonds. The smell of the butcher shop he remembered from childhood was thick in the air and he wanted no part of it.

"Tonight,we dine like Kings!" announced Manera, and was answered by a high, musical laugh that sounded familiar.

"Who wants some?" 

"I do! I do!" 

Nova was there, intact and uneaten, jiggling up and down with excitement. There was a broad, happy smile on his face that didn't match the predatory glitter in his eyes. He bent down over Mitchell, poking a finger into the raw spot where Manera had knocked him out, and giggled when Mitchell squawked through his gag. 

Manera had been dragging him by the collar of his shirt but now he let it drop, and Mitchell's head smacked against the tiles. 

"Got something special planned for you," Manera confided. "We're gonna have a feast."

He disappeared from view and there was a metallic, scraping noise that filled Mitchell with dread. 

"A little dull, I'm afraid, but beggars can't be choosers, and I'm thankful for what was provided," he continued.

When he came back into view he was looking fondly over at Nova, his little Judas Goat, and there was a long pole in his hand that looked like a curtain rod.

"Cut his pants off, Nova," said Frank Manera, handing the boy a long knife. 

He looked down at Mitchell.

"Try to relax…" he suggested. "If you clench up it will be harder."

He swung the pole round and the blunt end gleamed under the foggy overhead light. 


End file.
